Court the Storm
by cradily
Summary: He sees a bunch of older boys playing basketball one day, long arms stretching up as if to brush their fingers against the sky, and Shoyo thinks to himself, "I'm going to do that."
1. Come On and Slam

High school is weird, Shoyo decides his first day of basketball practice, but still fun.

The older members still intimidate him a bit, all broad shoulders and shrieking laughs and _massive_ hands; he counts three, maybe four other players without their head shaved or some part of their body pierce. One of the third-years even sports a black eye, eye swollen so shut that he winces when he smiles upon introducing himself.

It's hard to be scared of someone, though, after watching them wheeze and whine their way through a fifteen minute warm-up.

They start to treat Shoyo seriously after the first time he manages to dart through their defenses during the first practice match, incredulity and teasing gazes turning quickly into curiosity and even what he thinks might be approval. He's blocked and knocked down and gets up again and again, even just a bump of strong shoulders against his in midair sometimes enough to send him tumbling. The concrete scrapes his arms and legs and there's no apology waiting for him once he stands up, just a nod and a sharp slap to the back and _oh_ , this must be what respect is like to these sorts of guys.

They're the sort of boys that make his grandmother clutch her purse tight to her chest in the subway, and it takes them only half an hour to start calling Shoyo _Sparky_ , ruffling his hair after every successful jump or pivot and high-fiving him when he pulls off a good pass.

The outdoor court is a new experience for him, the Captain- Jin, he thinks -explaining to him and the few other first years that _yes, this is their regular practice court_ and _yeah, it gets ridiculously fucking hot sometimes, make sure to drink as much water as you can during school._

One of the older players is even nice enough to offer him knee pads afterwards, when they're all draped out across the grass nearby and chugging at their water bottles.

"They're pretty worn-down," he warns, tugging slightly at the single blond stripe that runs through his otherwise dark hair, "since they used to be my brother's and all, but they should fit okay." Shoyo thanks him furiously and assures him that yes, he will absolutely buy his own once the weekend starts up.

Another boy at his opposite laughs at that, low and scratchy. "Nishinoya's not that selfless," he tells Hinata, "just scared of blood, and your legs are gonna look like roadkill if you keep jumping around like you did today on concrete without protection."

Nishinoya clips his shoulder with a water bottle, muttering at him to _shut up_ , and the rest of the team is off, voices like bird calls when they laugh together.

* * *

"I can talk to him for you, if you want," Reiji offers teasingly, jostling Shoyo just a little bit too hard in the ribs with his elbow.

Shoyo jostles him right back, throws his weight against Reiji's side and scowls when he barely budges.

"He's _cool_ , okay," he says, shooting one last glimpse towards the taller of the two figures walking out of eyesight.

"He's a stringbean," Fumio counters around a mouthful of granola, "and he's _volleyball_."

"Oy," Nishinoya interjects, shoving at Fumio's shoulder when he rolls his eyes. The two fall into familiar bickering, a common occurrence even just a week into practices.

Navy blue is creeping onto the far horizon, a sure sign they have maybe half an hour left to stay. They head out to the parking lot after practice sometimes, Shoyo and the other first years and whichever older members are feeling indulgent, but practicing passes tends to grow boring pretty quick, and the lights there are only a small step up from the total darkness of the court after sunset.

It has its moments, though. A sharp breeze, raking through his hair after a long day spent inside. Hideo, who always forgets his watch, twisting his head back to squint up at the sun and shout curses at it. The skin of his forearms and face, tanning quickly to match the darker tone seemingly characteristic of the team.

Being able to relax like this afterwards, stars sputtering slowly into sight above them, the wind cool on sweat-slick skin and the grass underneath soft, smelling just slightly like dirt, familiar and soothing.

Jin and the vice-captain, Santiago, always wait around until everyone else has left; they sit now just at the edge of the court, voices startlingly low in comparison to the discussion taking place a few paces away from Shoyo.

"-and besides, none of us were even students then, dipshit," Nishinoya snarks, tugging at one of the rings in Fumio's left ear and dodging the resulting swat.

"What happened?" Reiji pipes up, listening with interest. The only first-year who doesn't pull his punches around Shoyo, Jin likes to pair them up during practice; Shoyo's pretty sure at least half of his bruises come from Reiji's elbows alone.

Fumio grunts. "Used to be the volleyball and basketball teams would switch out who got the gym during the week-you ever seen the sand pit, over by the soccer field?"

Shoyo hasn't, but apparently Reiji has, which Fumio takes as assent to continue. "The girls' team still practices there sometimes, lets the girls' basketball take the gym. The guys' teams were the same; one team had a big match coming, they got the gym for most of the week, and then made it up outside the next week. Give and take, so it all worked out fair by the end of the season."

Few years ago, though, right around the time the volleyball team started to get really good, the old coach-"

"Ukai," Nishinoya interjects.

"Yeah, Ukai. Dude pulled some strings, got the gym for the year, and boom; four years later, we're still out here, and they're," he says, waving a hand in the general direction of the school, "in _there_."

"He didn't just pull some strings," a quiet voice chimes in, and the whole group flails for a brief moment when Jin sits next to Shoyo, nudging Nishinoya gently over to make room for Santiago on his other side.

This close, Shoyo can taste the slight stink of tobacco that seems to follow the Captain everywhere. It's kind of weird, since he's never heard him cough even once, let alone seen him with a cigarette, and his voice is one of the smoothest on the team; it's none of his business, though, he figures, and returns the slight nod Jin offers him.

"Coach Ukai went directly to the Principal to ask for primary control of the gym."

The whole team quiets whenever the captain speaks, straining forward to make sure they hear every word he says. There's an atmosphere of authority he carries with him, one that makes even Fumio bow his head obediently when Jin corrects him.

It's _so cool_ , and sometimes Shoyo can barely restrain himself from shouting for the sheer awe and slight envy it inspires.

"The truth is," Jin continues, "Karasuno's never been much of a basketball school. Our main selling point has always been our volleyball team- our boys' volleyball team, especially, and it's never been better than it was four years ago."

"They reached Nationals that year, right?" Santiago asks, lazy in a way that suggests he already knows the answer.

Jin hums in affirmation, dark eyes slipping shut. "Didn't win, obviously, but word is they gave a pretty damn good fight. Good enough that the administration's let Coach Ukai keep the gym for the past few years, despite the losing streak they've had. Their nickname now is-"

" _Flightless crows_ ," Nishinoya says unexpectedly, and shrugs sheepishly when they turn to look at him. "Yü spends most of his time talking about the team; hard not to pick things up."

"My brother," he clarifies when Shoyo squints at him. "Looks just like me, minus about 20 centimeters. You'll know him when you meet him."

"Or hear him," Fumio grins.

Jin blows out a gusty sigh, only just audible to Shoyo from his place at his side. "In any case," he says, quieting them quickly, "it's worth another shot now that Coach Ukai's not with the school anymore."

"Sawamaru's pretty reasonable," he muses, "so with luck we can reach some sort of compromise over the next few weeks; even just one day a week in the gym could really help during our matches."

"Yes!" Fumio's shout sends a couple of birds nearby flying off, squawking indignantly.

"Don't celebrate just yet," Santiago warns, shoulders rolling back defensively. "We've had this planned for a while now-if this shit doesn't work and the administration doesn't back us up, chances are we're going to start having mandatory weekend practices."

"What?"

Jin leans over conspiratorily when the two start to argue, addressing Shoyo and Reiji directly in a low voice.

"We're not exactly the nicest-looking bunch, you know?" He taps a finger against his brow where a single small stud lies and grins.

"People look at our team and they think _delinquents_. On the court it works, usually intimidates the other team pretty well, throws them off their game. Maybe not for you two so much," and Shoyo warbles in distress when he ruffles his hair, "and especially not for Sparky here, but as a whole we look pretty rough. Not a team you want to go up against, right?"

He finally turns away from Shoyo's hair, tilts his head towards where the school buildings lie a little ways away. "At school, though, it means most people avoid us. A lot of kids are afraid of us, even; or it means they think we're dumb, only good for sports."

It's a little too easy to understand the sentiment. Shoyo remembers boys a full two heads taller than him smirking down at him that first day, voices loud enough to hurt his ears and piercings flashing in the afternoon sun, and he remembers outright _fear_ and the urge to turn on the spot and run.

He also remembers going to every practice during middle school, working drills in every spare moment he could find and still being shuffled off the court time and again because of his height.

"Fumio dislikes most of the other athletic teams just for that reason," Jin continues, eyes steady on the mentioned boy's form, "and because he thinks they should know better than the rest of the school. He's not the only one."

"I can't really blame them, to be honest. As a third-year, especially," he says, "it's frustrating to have other people underestimate us because of our looks. Still, I think most of them are used to it by now; Fumio just resents the volleyball team in particular because he got in a fight with one of their members back in second year. Don't take anything too serious from it; they're not too bad, for the most part."

Jin yawns, just once, and pushes himself up to his feet. "You guys should probably be heading home soon," he remarks casually, "you guys look like you need the rest, and it's getting pretty dark. With any luck, we might even be in the gym by next week; I'll keep you guys updated." His eyes glitter, even in the dusk settling down around them, and Shoyo feels what must be _respect_ bubble up in his chest before he turns away, gesturing to Santiago with one hand to follow him.


	2. You're Gonna Go Far, Kid

They're not in the gym by next week, or even the week after that.

"They're still trying to get a new coach set up," Jin tells them when they ask after practice, shrugging lazily. "Don't want to make any decisions before they can consult with him first."

"In the meanwhile, though…" The key glitters in the sun, dangling from his hand, and Jin outright grins before tucking it away in a back pocket. "Weekend mornings are all ours. This Saturday, I expect all the first-years there by at least seven. I would _highly recommend_ ," he continues with a tilt of his head, raising his voice, "that the upperclassmen come as well."

"We've got a sense now for each of your abilities," Santiago chimes in, draped out against the far edge of the court, "and we think we've more or less figured out what positions you're gonna play. Now it's just a matter of shaping you to fit those positions in the way that best benefits the team."

A couple of laughs break out among the huddle of third-years listening unobtrusively to the two speak.

"Oh _shit_ ," one chokes out, hands dancing exaggeratedly, "Coach Santiago has arrived; your shit is wrecked."

It takes Shoyo a second to place him, the half-shaved head for once not an efficient means of distinguishing one player from another. Bulky build, with more emphasis placed on shoulder width than on vertical ability; taller than Reiji but shorter than Jin, with light brown hair spiked to drape itself across his forehead.

The birthmark gives it away, eventually, a long stripe like grape juice running its way down his left cheek. _Junji_ , one of the regular power forwards during practice matches, like Reiji's mentioned he wants to be.

The rest of the upperclassmen are easier to recall once he remembers Junji: Daisuke, replacement point guard for Jin, all lanky limbs and rough-hewn hands; Makoto, the tallest member of the team and the center, left ear sporting multiple metal spuds; and, of course, Nishinoya and Fumio, small forward and shooting guard respectively.

"How nice of you to volunteer to help out the first-years, Junji," Jin smiles once the resulting clamor has died down. "No later than seven, okay? Don't be late." It's not a request.

Shoyo can't hear Junji's groan in the hooting and hollering that follows, all _oooooohs_ and _oh shit_ s, but he can more than imagine it from the boy's facial expression.

"Saturday it is, then," Jin nods, and turns to yell at the rest of the team. "You guys finish your warm-up already? No? Then get to it!"

* * *

"So," Santiago notes cheerfully, tilting Shoyo's arm this way and that, "I'd say elbow pads are also a must, maybe?"

He nods, just slightly sullen, and hisses while Santiago scrubs with antiseptic at the mess of blood and grit ground into his skin, resolutely ignoring the gagging sounds Nishinoya makes from his place on the bench next to Shoyo.

* * *

"How has your handwriting managed to get _worse_ over time?" Reiji asks incredulously, leaning over to squint at the homework Shoyo's trying to finish before next period.

He grunts around the sandwich in his mouth, shoving Reiji away with his shoulder and raising one hand, flashing broken skin and bruised fingertips. Reiji whistles appreciatively, snags his wrist to peer closer and easily overpowers Shoyo's attempts to tug it back.

"You're going to have some pretty impressive callouses once those blisters go away," he says, sounding faintly impressed.

"Oh!" One of the girls who sits with them at lunch shoves her water bottle down, fingers skittering on the ground before seizing on her bag and digging through it. "I think I have some spare athletic tape, if you want to wrap your hand up. It's supposed to help with strengthening your wrists, too…"

Shoyo tries to decline but nearly chokes instead, yanks the sandwich away from his mouth and forcefully swallows down the too-big mouthful he's been chewing.

He can feel his ears burning for embarrassment when he mutters excuses, hands sliding down to tuck themselves under his thighs.

It's not- he can appreciate the offer, would probably accept it any other day, but this whole week's been one person after another fussing over him, it feels like, drawing attention to the bruises that litter his arms and the scrapes that decorate his legs.

Shoyo's the only one walking home every day with injuries, the only one who has to wear padding during practice, and-

"Yo!" A finger flicks him on the forehead, just sudden and strong enough to make him yelp in surprise and jerk backwards. Reiji frowns at him, expression nonplussed in the light of the courtyard. "What's with that face? You should say yes, you know- we've got that practice tomorrow morning in the gym, and you know Jin's going to ramp up the intensity."

He nods reluctantly, rubbing at the skin between his eyes with a wince. "Yeah…"

"My sister went into sports medicine," the girl says, moving closer so she can pull his hand towards her, "I can show you how to wrap them up."

Shame, bitter at the back of his throat, rises momentarily. "Thank you very much!" Shoyo hurries to assure her, ducking his head down a little lower than is probably proper in his enthusiasm.

"It's nothing," she says, smiling gently at him, and if his ears weren't red before, they are now. She plays tennis, he thinks he recalls her saying, and her hands are steady and muscled against his as she guides him through it, layering thin fabric over the meat of his palms.

The wrap's a bright blue color (cerulean, maybe; he remembers that from Pokemon) against tan skin; the longer Shoyo looks at it, the stronger the sensation of holding a piece of the sky in his hand grows, irrational.

He thanks the girl once more when she hands the roll to him, mood weirdly lightened as he tucks it away in his bag.

* * *

The air's got a slight chill to it when he arrives at school the next morning, too-large jacket pulled tight around his frame and nose gone numb from his bike ride and the scratch of the wind across his face.

His hands, at least, are warm, wrapped up in mittens carefully pulled over athletic tape he'd spent ten minutes putting on. His knees are bright red, in contrast, and Shoyo tries to rub feeling back into them as he sets his bike up against the side of the gym and staggers in.

The doors are already open, the lights overhead humming in that familiar way that means they're still warming up. Someone's lowered the basketball hoops, usually pressed up against the ceiling like a cat's paws tucked up against its chest or cicadas clutched tight to a tree branch.

A broad back appears from the doorway of the supply closet next to the stage, dark hair pulled back into a ponytail and arms straining to haul out a large cart of basketballs.

He glances over his shoulder as he moves and a wide grin crosses his face when he sees Shoyo, one hand rising automatically in a wave.

"Sparky!" Santiago's voice echoes in the empty building, wheels of the cart squeaking when he gives it a final shove into place on the sidelines. He lets out a low huff and waves Shoyo over, stretching out his arms behind him.

You're pretty early; didn't you bike here? Did you eat breakfast?"

"Of course!" Shoyo assures him, laughing weakly at the squint Santiago pins him with. _So this is why they call him 'Team Mom' behind his back, huh..._

He regards Shoyo skeptically, head tilting to the side for a long moment before finally breaking into a grin. "Well, good!" The slap he lays on Shoyo's back almost knocks the wind out of him, sending him pinwheeling forward in an attempt to regain his balance.

"Throw your stuff wherever; I've got some shit I've got to go over with you, and we might as well get some passing practice in while we do," Santiago says, twirling a ball lazily on his finger.

Shoyo lets himself roll into the familiar motion, the back and forth of the ball and the fold and unfurl of his elbows against his side. He tries to avoid noticing just how twitchy Santiago looks, shoves down the dread that rises like bile in his throat when he finally begins to speak, hands pausing around the basketball and fingers drumming lightly at its surface.

"Man, there's really no easy way to say this, huh?" He lets out a slight _tch_ as he avoids Shoyo's eyes. "Figures I'd have to tell you; Jin's all over it when someone needs to be yelled at, but shit gets heavy and dude goes slippery as an eel."

* * *

"Truth is, Sparky, right now you're the weakest player we've got." His voice is uncharacteristically gentle, a kind attempt to soothe the sting of the words. "You've got the basics down okay, but your technical ability- footwork included -just isn't good enough yet to justify playing you regularly in offense. And you and I both know you'll never be physically strong enough to compete in a defensive position."

There's a difference, Shoyo thinks, between knowing something personally and having someone you respect tell you it outright.

His shots go wide more often than not and his form breaks like glass when he tries to block someone, speed and reflex like paper trying to stop up the sea the team's physical might makes. Maybe it was naive of Shoyo to think that he could move past these things, that he could still contribute to the team despite all his flaws and become something _more_ and make a space for himself among giants.

It's shame that burns now in his gut, heating his face and making his eyes sting with the realization that the rest of the team likely resents him, was humoring him these past few weeks; a burden, one the vice-captain now stood tasked with cutting away and bringing back to reality.

"You're going to have to put in a lot of extra work just to catch up to the rest of the team," Santiago continues. "Practice'll help out with bringing you up to snuff, but putting in outside hours will really speed things up as well."

Shoyo bows his head at that, lets his hair fall forward into his face for the sake of hiding how red he knows his cheeks have gone. Relief blooms in his chest, bright and brilliant; he's on the team, he's on the team _he's on the team._ "I'll work hard!" He promises, voice tight.

Santiago doesn't speak for a moment, face obscured from Shoyo's sight. The silence is heavy like stormclouds in the air between them, the slight slide of their breathing the only audible sound.

There's the soft whisper of a word, too quiet for Shoyo to pick up; and then footsteps, striding near.

"You know me and Jin watched one of your games from junior high, right?" He asks, casual. Shoyo fixes his eyes on Santiago's shoes, only about a meter away, resolves not to look at his senior unless absolutely necessary.

He doesn't trust himself not to crumple if he does.

"They kept you on the bench the whole time, right? We figured that's why you're so rough around the edges now."

He nods just once, throat tight.

A low puff of air, derisive, and Santiago's in front of him before he can react, rough hand snagging him by the chin to pull his face up.

" _Their fucking loss, then,"_ he grins, eyes bright like the sun on Shoyo's and teeth bared savage.

 _What?_

Santiago lets his hand drop and glances away; this close Shoyo can just spot the pink that blooms along his cheekbones. "Shit, but I'm bad at this," he grumbles, scratching at his neck. The brief moment of intensity fades, thinning the air, and he speaks:

"Sparky, you've got an absolutely _ridiculous_ amount of potential," and _oh,_ Shoyo feels lightheaded, as if from whiplash, "probably more than anyone else on the team right now. You've got the speed and the instincts to be a goddamn juggernaut on the court once you've got the training and experience to really put them to use."

"This isn't a death sentence, kid; Jin asked me to talk to you so you don't feel singled out later, since you're gonna be putting in more practice than the rest of the first-years."

He snorts, lowering his head in a way that looks almost...abashed? It takes Shoyo a minute to place his expression, out-of-place as it is on Santiago's broad features. "My fault for tackling that shit all wrong. What I should have said from the start, Sparky, and what Jin wanted me to tell you, is this: we wouldn't ask you, or anyone else, to work as hard as we're asking you if we weren't absolutely sure it'd be worth it in the end."

Shoyo's face meets Santago's chest in a fraction of an instant, smile spreading so wide his cheeks hurt and chest throbbing in unmistakable joy. "Thank you!" He squeaks, voice muffled around the cotton of his shirt, and lets his arms squeeze tight around his vice-captain's torso.

"Pfft." Santiago squeezes him back, just once, hand coming up to rake through Shoyo's hair. "Come on, if we head to the bathroom real quick we can probably get your face washed up before the others show. Jin'll kill me if he knows I made you cry, even by accident."

"I'm not crying!" He pulls back far enough to retort out of reflex, and lets him tug him along anyway.

* * *

 **Reviews are always appreciated!**


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